“They’re shorthanded. A lot of cops joined up the day after Pearl. Cherry caught the case. It was his turf the stiff . . . the bodies washed up on.”

Francois was about to snap a comment at Crew’s indelicate choice of language when Detective Cherry came through the swing doors.

Jesus Christ, what a bag of shit, she thought.

“Sorry I’m so early,” the cop said with a lopsided grin.

Francois had never seen a man so obviously teetering on the edge of a massive coronary, and a stroke, and liver failure, and God only knew what else, all at the same time.

His limp was pronounced, but that was the least of his problems. The man’s fingers were yellowed with nicotine. He had a paunch that fell about nine inches over his belt. His breathing sounded like a something a dying animal might squeeze out when crushed to death by a boa constrictor. His face was livid, the color of bad blood and meat sickness. And he stank. She wasn’t sure which was the worse, the sour sweat, or the stale haze of cigarette smoke and alcohol fumes that followed him into the room.

“So,” grunted Cherry, nodding at the bodies. “The happy couple.”

“Buster, please,” Crew said quietly.

Wassman and Mitsuka both stared at him, appalled.

Francois could feel the moment turning into a circus. Then she thought, Buster Cherry? Oh, for fuck’s sake. She was going to find it real hard warming up to this asshole.

“If you’re all right, Detective, we’ll start. You can prop yourself up on that stool if you need to.”

Cherry bristled at the suggestion. He folded his massive arms and shook his head.

“Don’t you worry about me, Doc. I mighta slipped over my fighting weight, but I’m not about to feed the worms just yet.”

“What the hell do you mean by that crack?” snapped Wassman.

Cherry shrugged, a slow movement that shifted a hell of a lot of shoulder meat around under his crumpled suit. “It’s just an expression, sister.”

Francois took a deep breath before speaking.

“Lieutenant Commander Wassman is a U.S. Navy combat surgeon, Detective. Not your sister.”

Cherry smiled. His teeth were nearly as nicotine-stained as his fingers.

“Like I said, Doc. Just an expression. You ladies might want to lighten up, if you’re gonna make a habit of this kinda work. Send you to the fucking nuthouse otherwise.”

The atmosphere in the small theater was growing palpably worse. Captain Lunn pushed off the bench where he’d been leaning and said, “Why don’t we get to work.”

Dr. Brumm and ADA Crew nodded and mumbled their agreement. Francois held Cherry’s gaze for a second, her eyes cold and level, before turning her back on him and flicking a control switch to power up the morgue’s video cameras.